W. Griffin: The Hostage

"Natalie, do you have anything to say before I send Charley out of here to take, with my profound thanks, a couple of weeks off? After he lets everybody in his apartment go, of course."

"I was thinking about Ambassador Lorimer, sir. He's ill, and it will devastate him to learn what his son has been up to."

"Jesus, I hadn't thought about that," the President said. "Charley, what about it?"

"Sir, Mr. Lorimer is missing in Paris," Charley said. "The man who died in Shangri-La was Jean-Paul Bertrand, a Lebanese. I don't think anyone will be anxious to reveal who Bertrand really was. And I don't think we have to, or should."

"What about his sister?" Natalie Cohen asked. "Should she be told?"

"I think so, yes," Charley said. "I haven't thought this through, but I have been thinking that the one thing I could tell Mrs. Masterson that would put her mind at rest about the threats to her children would be that I knew her brother was dead, and with his death, these bastards… excuse me… had no more interest in her or her children."

"And if she asks how you know, under what circumstances?" the President asked.

"That's what I haven't thought through, sir."

"You don't want to tell her what a despicable sonofabitch he was, is that it?"

"I suspect she knows, sir. But it's classified Top Secret-Presidential."

"Would anyone have objections to my authorizing Charley to deal with the Masterson family in any way he deems best, including the divulgence of classified material?"

"Splendid idea, Mr. President," Ambassador Montvale said.

"Do it soon, Charley. Please," Natalie Cohen said.

"Yes, ma'am."

The President stood up and came around the desk and offered Castillo his hand.

"Thank you, Charley. Good job. Go home and get some rest. And then think where you can discreetly hide sixteen million dollars until you need it." [SIX] Room 527 Fifth Floor, Silverstein Pavilion Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania 3400 Spruce Street Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 2135 1 August 2005 "Hey, baby! I'm home."

"Oh, Charley!"

"How are you doing?"

"Look at me. My face looks like somebody attacked me with a baseball bat."

"You look beautiful. Can I kiss you?"

"You're sure you want to?"

"I'm sure I want to." Five minutes later, they stopped.

She smiled at him.

"What I was afraid you were going to do was come back from Europe, and walk in here and start that stupid Wiener schnitzel nonsense again. I like it better when you just say you love me."

"Oh, shit. I forgot."

"Forgot what?"

He went into his briefcase and came out with an aluminum foil-wrapped package.

"What's that?"

"Wiener schnitzel, the real thing. Except that this comes from Budapest, not Vienna. You get the best Hungarian gulyas in Vienna, but the best Wiener schnitzel comes from Budapest. Understand?"

She didn't reply. She simply took his hand and held it against her cheek. He saw that she was crying, but he knew it wasn't because she was unhappy.

One of the characters in this book was a Special Forces medic.

The Special Forces Association tries hard to keep up with former Green Berets. Sadly, this includes regularly publishing brief notices of their passing, giving their name, rank, where they served, as what, the highest medal (if any) for valor they were awarded, and the cause and date of their death. One such will appear for a Special Forces medic who died as I was finishing this book. It will read something like this:

WALTON, John. Sergeant. Vietnam. Medic. Silver Star. While piloting experimental aircraft. 27 June 2005.

In the case of Sergeant Walton, other obituaries published in newspapers around the world-often on the front page-were much longer, and made reference to the fact that he earned the Silver Star-the nation's third-highest award for valor-by saving the lives of fellow soldiers under fire.

And reported that the Wal-Mart executive, and son of the founder of Wal-Mart, died the eleventh-richest man in the world, with a fortune of $18.2 billion.